


The Art of Battle

by HearMyWords



Category: Original Work
Genre: I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Original Fiction, Original Universe, Sort Of, Weirdness, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 18:52:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12777306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HearMyWords/pseuds/HearMyWords
Summary: When the lines between reality are blurred in more ways than one.





	The Art of Battle

The ground shakes as our barracks take another hit, I watch the soldiers run around me, screaming and shouting as our superiors wave their arms and spit out orders messily from cracked lips. But I don't hear them, hear anything. 

Just a solid distant sound of silence as I watch men to my left and right rise and fall like paper dolls. Crumpling onto the ground and dropping their guns as blood spills like ink. 

Like this is all some sick painting. A painting of death. 

A painting where the browns and reds are a mix of blood and dirt that nobody can decipher which is which if they tried. A form of art that is squeezed from a gasping solider who lies on the ground bobbing for breath like a dying fish as he chokes on his own blood and wonders where his legs have been blown off to. A canvas that was once white with the prospect of peace being made now detailed with the bodies of men on either side littered messily any and everywhere because war doesn't care to be neat.

There are body parts where ever you look and if you can't see them, squint your eyes and try harder. A man's hand is lying in the field of battle, dust blowing around it and you could swear you saw it twitch. Like a lizard's tail. You're all animals afterall aren't you? Another's torso is to your right. You can hear the god awful blood curdling screams as someone watches their bestfriend die in a barrage of bullets, blood flying out of them like a paint tube being squirted carelessly on to a canvas. 

You can feel your eyes burning with what is either tears or dirt but you don't know anymore. 

You don't know why this even started. 

If it was even important.

Was it ever important?!

What was the point of all this? 

A man just lost the side of his face to a flying piece of shrapnel ten feet away from you. You hear the medics panic because they can't get to everyone in time as they try to scramble towards him. They're running low on supplies one seems to be shouting but you can't tell for sure. You want to help but can't move. 

Why can't you move?

Why don't you help?

Why won't the painter put down their brush?

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this about a month back. If everyone is cool with it I might post more original stuff more often. Please leave any comments or criticisms below. Thank you.


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